"There's nothing more annoying than a guitarist just noodling. Shredding, it's horrid. It's the same thing when you try to get a band together, you always end up with these noodlers, y'know when I first met him, yeah. Slash was a noodler, man. I think he still is. Like in Guns N' Roses he would noodle but then the vocals would come back in and that would shut him up!"

But they both have said very positive things for each other as well, even after the breakup. They have wrote together all those amazing songs after all.

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And so it was that we are moving, Izzy Stradlin and I, in a long black limousine no less, hither and yon through the empty August streets of Paris, searching -- always in vain -- first for a guitar shop, then a pizza house, until finally we're just in transit, completely rudderless, no particular place to go. Just moving. On one lazy infamous street a single desultory prostitute stands, old and defiant. 'Is this the... uh, red-letter district,' he asks me uninterestedly in his slightly paranoid half-whisper of a voice. A lantern-jawed Midwestern farm boy with haunted eyes and a monumental Keith Richards fixation ('the guy is just so far out! I imagine he must be, y'know, just really, really numb, y'know what I'm sayin''). Stradlin's supposed to be on holiday, but today (Wednesday) is this interview and tomorrow's Germany, where he's going specifically to 'have all this new scientific shit pumped into my gums so my teeth won't keep fallin' out.' In between involves going through Customs and this imminent reality is clearly not sitting well with him at all. Though maybe it's just a pathological reaction dating back to a year ago, when on a flight to Japan with the other Gunners and ordered by his manager to get rid of all drugs about his person and Izzy had done so accordingly, sending himself straight into a coma lasting thirty-six hours that almost necessitated canceling the gigs they'd come to play.